


Teenage Dream

by lovetincture



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, M/M, Pre-Series, Road Trips, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:14:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26436244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovetincture/pseuds/lovetincture
Summary: Sam is fourteen when they run away. Dean’s an adult, and monsters are real, and Sam is going crazy in his skin. It doesn’t start as a plan.Or, the one in which Sam and Dean do not become hunters.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 16
Kudos: 139





	1. Chapter 1

Sam is fourteen when they run away. Dean’s an adult, and monsters are real, and Sam is going crazy in his skin. It doesn’t start as a plan.

“I can’t,” he whispers to Dean one night. They’re lying across from each other in a motel room, Sam on a fold-out cot pushed against the wall and Dean in one of the twin beds. The room is blackout dark, curtains obscuring the flickering lights in the parking lot. The only light comes through the crack under the bathroom door where their dad is showering.

Dean is quiet for a while, and Sam thinks he might be asleep. The thought makes him feel miserable and petulant. He shifts under the covers, pulling the sheet all the way up over his nose.

“Can’t do what?” Dean asks, just as quietly.

Sam doesn’t have to say it. He can pretend he was talking in his sleep, wake up again tomorrow and nothing will change. But then  _ nothing will change. _ The thought sends a spike of sick dread down the back of his spine, and he can’t. He  _ can’t. _ The thought of waking up tomorrow and going on a hunt fills him with a sense of hopelessness so thorough and hysterical he can feel it burrowing its way down into his bones. It scares him like nothing else—not werewolves, not ghosts, not monsters—and those things scare him plenty.

“Can’t what, Sammy?”

_ “This,” _ Sam says, miserable. “All of this. I can’t, Dean. I’ll die.”

He hears Dean’s sharp intake of breath, and he feels bad, then. He feels bad for laying this on Dean, for making him worry. It’s the  _ truth, _ though. It’s the truth, and he can’t help it.

“Don’t,” Dean says. “Sammy, don’t say that. You’re just tired. You’ll feel better tomorrow.” He says it like saying the words aloud might make it true.

“I won’t.”

Dean takes another deep breath and then another. They hear the sound of the water shutting off, and Sam flinches.

“Okay,” Dean says. “Okay. We’ll—we’ll figure this out in the morning, okay? Just- just go to sleep for now. Alright?”

Sam nods even though Dean can’t see him. He could say more, but the bathroom door opens, and Sam shuts his eyes.

* * *

They’re up early the next morning, up before the crack of dawn, and Sam feels sore and tired all the way through, as if he’d run windsprints all night instead of tossing and turning in a tiny bed.

“Oughtta have slept,” John huffs, taking one good look at Sam before turning back to tossing things in his duffel—weapons and salt, his journal and yesterday’s flannel. “We’ve got a long hike ahead of us, and I don’t want any lip from you.”

Sam stays sullenly quiet, staring at his bowl of cold cereal before Dean nudges him with a shoulder.

“Yes, sir,” Sam says.

John gives him a long look before turning back to packing with a sigh. “You coddle him, you know,” he says to Dean.

Dean shrugs. “Sam’ll be good by the time we’re ready to go.” He looks at Sam with his freckled face and his lips so soft when they’re not twisted in a cocky smirk. “Right?”

Sam coughs. Nods. Jams another bite of soggy cereal into his mouth. Says, “Yeah,” because everyone is still looking at him.

John sighs again, looking at each of his sons in turn before hefting their bags onto his shoulders to load out into the car. He shakes his head on the way out. “Hurry it up.”

“Dude,” Dean says, and Sam only shrinks down in his chair, hunching further into his hoodie. Dean turns a critical eye on his bowl. “Finish your milk.”

* * *

The hike is long and miserable, as promised. It’s  _ cold, _ which at least keeps the bugs away, and Sam privately thinks they’re not going to find anything because anything with any sense would be hibernating by now and not trekking through the goddamn freezing ass wilderness. He doesn’t have a desire to have a chunk torn out of his hide, so he keeps his thoughts to himself.

Dean keeps looking at him—not in any way that’s obvious, not even in a way that’s different, if Sam’s totally honest with himself. It’s just that every time he turns around, Dean’s got an eye on him, wearing a thoughtful, calculating look that Sam can’t quite place. He usually finds it soothing. Today it just makes him itchy, crawling over his skin like the bugs that aren’t there, driving him to distraction.

Dad demands absolute silence. He’s teaching them how to track using deer as an object lesson, and every time a branch so much as creeks underfoot, he makes them pause for long seconds to put the deer’s minds at ease. It’s annoying, and cold, and  _ stupid _ since they’re not going to shoot anything anyway, but at least it means he doesn’t have to talk to Dean.

He isn’t avoiding Dean, exactly. He’s just not looking forward to the conversation he knows they’re going to have as soon as Dean can get him alone, the one the look in his eyes suggests isn’t going to be an easy one.

Sam isn’t sure how Dad doesn’t feel it, the tense, crackling tension lingering in the air between the two of them. It feels oppressive and thick as the fog bank rolling in, the wind buffeting his face, but then, he supposes it’s not that strange. Dad always was good at only seeing what he wanted to see.

They check into another motel, and Sam is wet in his clothes and chilled to the bone. He’d fallen into a snowbank and soaked his jeans through, and they’d walked another five miles at least before it’d gotten dark enough that Dad had called it a day. Dean didn’t like that, Sam could tell. He could see it in the pinched-lip expression and the crease between his eyes when he looked at Sam, the dark, spreading splotch over the ass and legs of his jeans.

He didn’t say anything though, did he, always the good son, the good soldier.

Sam gets hustled into the bathroom first, and there’s no argument there. His teeth are chattering, and his toes feel numb in his boots. He toes them off and grits his teeth as he sets about the grim work of peeling frigid denim from his pale, quaking thighs.

He turns the water up hot, sighing as he feels it start to heat and fog the room. He breathes deeply, filling his lungs with the thick steam. The first touch of the water on his toes makes him hiss. It feels like a knife going straight through him, but he sets his jaw and climbs in all the same. The prickly-cold feeling of his limbs thawing out under the water’s embrace gradually melts into something soothing.

He doesn’t stay in long, mindful of the way Dad and Dean still need to shower. Dean suggests that Dad go next, and that draws no argument either, just a low grunt of thanks as the door swings shut behind him.

Sam thinks Dean will say something then, the thin motel door between them and Dad the closest thing they’ve ever really known to privacy, but Dean just sits on the edge of the bed, carefully perched so as not to get snowmelt and mud all over the bedspread. He turns the TV on low and watches an episode of Looney Tunes they’ve both seen a million times before.

Eventually, Sam stops acting like Dean’s going to bite him and sits carefully down beside him—not touching, just sharing space. Something in him relaxes.

* * *

Sam thinks they’ll all turn in for the night, but Dad doesn’t stay long. He says something about replenishing their supplies, and Sam knows that means going to a bar. They’re between cases, so it’s even odds Dad won’t be back until late, smelling like he’s wearing the bar home.

“Get some sleep, you hear?” Dad says on his way out. “Early night tonight.”

“Yes, sir,” they say in unison.

A long yawn distorts the edges of Sam’s words. No problem, he thinks. The day is catching up with him. He’s more tired than he thought he’d be, and falling into oblivion sounds  _ great _ right about now, even if it comes with a side of a shitty, hard motel cot.

Dad grunts his approval, pats his pocket to check for his keys and flask, the small of his back to check for his gun. The door clicks shut behind him. They listen to the sound of the lock sliding back in place. The growl of the Impala has faded away into the distance before either of them speak.

“Alright, spill,” Dean says as soon as he’s got Sam alone, cornered so he can’t slip away with the excuse of helping Dad or going to the bathroom or checking their supplies.

“What,” Sam says, still halfway hoping he can get away with playing dumb.

Dean just gives him a look.

“What you said last night, that you can’t do this anymore. What did you mean by that?”

Sam shakes his head, but it doesn’t mean no and it doesn’t mean stop. He doesn’t know what it means.

“Sammy, please. Talk to me. How can I help if I don’t even know what’s wrong?”

A sob sneaks out of Sam then, hot and small. Mortifying tears leak out of the corners of his eyes, and Sam stares at his lap, blinking fiercely to will them away.

“Sammy.” He sounds so small and lost.

“It’s this, Dean, all of this. The monsters, the hunting, the  _ training. _ I don’t want this. No one ever asked me!”

“Well, yeah, Sam. No one asked you if you wanted to go to school either, right? Some things you just gotta do because they’re good for you. You’ll understand it when you’re older.”

“I’m old enough! I’m old enough to know that this isn’t good for me. It isn’t good for anyone.”

Dean bites his lip. When Sam looks up, Dean’s eyebrows are creased. He’s looking at Sam concerned, like Sam’s just grown an extra head or something.

“I don’t know what to tell you, kiddo. I can try to talk to Dad—”

Sam snorts.

“—maybe get him to ease up on the training or something,” Dean finishes resolutely. “Maybe get him to stay in one place so you can finish out the school year. How’s that sound?”

It breaks his heart. It breaks his heart because Dean’s  _ trying. _ He’s trying, but he’s just as helpless as Sam, and it’s not enough.

Sam licks his lips. “That might—that might be okay. That’d help.”

Dean breathes out all in a rush, an exhalation of relief. “Good.” He squeezes Sam’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he says, as if Sam’s done anything worth being thanked for.

“He’ll never go for it,” Sam says.

“You just let me worry about that.”

Sam nods. He’s about to go back to his own bed. He’s tired as anything, limbs sore and weirdly embarrassed on top of it.

“C’mere,” Dean says.

Sam stops, head tilted, but Dean just slides into the small bed, peeling back the covers. Sam just looks at him.

“You waiting for an invitation?” Dean asks.

Sam shakes his head, clambering into bed after his brother. It’s a tight fit. Their arms are pressed together when they lie side by side. Dean reaches over and turns off the lamp, and the room is plunged into cool, comforting darkness.

They lay quiet for a while. Sam listens to the sound of his own breathing.

“You’re not—” Dean hesitates. It’s a weird sound on him, unfamiliar and rusty. His breath hitches. “You’re not going to hurt yourself or nothing, right, Sammy?”

Sam shakes his head.

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

Sam feels Dean relax beside him, and he lets out a long, pent-up sigh. This is what he wanted, he realizes—for Dean to take care of everything. For Dean to take care of Sam like he always has done. Sam burrows against Dean’s chest, nose digging into his sternum and nevermind that they’re too old because just for now, everything doesn’t seem so crazy. Dean’s arms circle around him, and he feels warm and safe and surrounded by love.

“Dad,” Sam says before he drops off into dreams.

“I’ll wake you up before he gets back. Go to sleep. It’s gonna be okay.”

* * *

It was a good try, but predictably, Dad doesn’t go for it. He doesn’t go for it to the tune of a long string of expletives and a loud, fevered argument that Sam can hear through the door of the dusty cabin they’re staying in this time.

“But Dad—”

“I said  _ no,” _ Dad says with finality, and that’s that. There’s the sound of a door opening and slamming, and Sam’s heart rabbits inside his chest. His cheeks feel fever-hot, and the frantic, manic buzz has started up inside his skin again.

He hugs his arms tight around himself. He slides down the wall, slumping on his bed like a puppet with its strings cut, and tries not to think of anything. The footsteps in the hall get farther and farther away, and he can hear the noise of the refrigerator opening from here. The walls really are like paper. He can’t stop thinking about everything.

He promised Dean he wouldn’t hurt himself, but well. He’s only human. Dean will forgive him, he thinks, even while he’s flooded by guilt. And anyway, he’s not trying to hurt himself. He just needs the buzzing under his skin to stop.

The thing about the family business is that it’s great if you have a penchant for self-destruction. The thing about the family business is that there are knives everywhere.

Sam doesn’t think. He just grabs one and starts cutting. He doesn’t cut very deep, and he doesn’t cut anywhere that’s going to pose problems or raise questions. It’s just a little line on the back of his forearm, a neat slice with a hard-edged sting that he doesn’t even feel until the blood starts welling up. There’s a fascinating throb and a sick twist in his gut, and it doesn’t quite melt through the noise in his head, so Sam picks up the knife and cuts again.

It’s slapped out of his hand so fast that he’s left reeling and wondering what the hell just happened.

“Sammy, what the  _ hell.” _

Dean’s grip on Sam’s wrist is bruisingly tight, smudging through the blood that’s already started to drip. He grabs the nearest piece of dubiously clean cloth—one of Sam’s favorite t-shirts—and clamps it tight around Sam’s arm.

“What the hell are you doing?” His face is white, and he shakes Sam a little for good measure, which improbably, makes Sam cry. Of all the things, of course it’s that.

“I’m sorry,” Sam chokes out.

Dean swears, folding Sam into a hug that’s no less crushing. “It’s okay. Shh, shh, it’s okay. I’ve got you. Fuck, I’ve got you.”

He holds Sam and lets him cry himself out. He feels like a baby. He’s too damn old for this, but Dean just shushes him and pets his hair and wipes the snot and tears from Sam’s face using the corner of his own sleeve without even making a face.

“You’re gonna fucking kill me, you know that?” Dean mutters, and Sam only clutches him harder.

When Sam’s finally run dry, Dean peels the t-shirt away from his arm. Sam winces a little when it pulls free, rust-brown blood already starting to clot, cementing the ruined shirt to his skin.

Dean stands. Hesitates. It takes Sam a minute to realize what for.

“It’s fine,” Sam says, but Dean doesn’t move a muscle. Sam rolls his eyes. “I’m not going to carve myself up while you’re in the other room. You can leave me alone.”

“Can I?” Dean asks, and it’s not at all a joke, but it’s maybe trying to be. Dean bites his lip. “I’ll be right back.”

He is, back with the first aid kit they keep in the bathroom so quick that Sam thinks he has to have run the whole way. He sits beside Sam on the bed and tugs Sam’s arm into his lap. He drags a sopping washcloth over it, pulling the towel away red with blood. Sam flinches at the cold. He guesses Dean’s lightning-quick supply run didn’t include time to let the water warm up.

“Don’t be a baby,” Dean says without any heat in it. He drags an alcohol swab over Sam’s arm when it’s clean, tilting it this way and that in the light. “Well, at least you don’t need stitches.”

“I’m not an idiot.”

“You sure?”

Sam glares at him halfheartedly. Dean’s hands are gentle, and he babies Sam more than strictly necessary. It really isn’t a bad cut. Like Sam said, he isn’t  _ stupid— _ but it feels good to have someone look after him, good to have soothing hands taping a bandage into place and before running over Sam from the crown of his head down to the place where his ass meets the bed. Dean checks him over until he’s satisfied that Sam isn’t hurt anywhere else—isn’t in danger of falling apart.

He thumps Sam awkwardly on the back when he’s done, as if there’s some way to reel back the intensity of this strange moment. It jars loose a cough, and now Sam’s staring at his fingers twisted together between his knees to avoid looking at the bandage layered white on his arm.

He did that.

Dean tosses the ruined shirt into the plastic bag that serves as their laundry basket.

“You heard,” he says.

Sam nods.

Dean flops over onto Sam’s bed, nudging comic books out of the way with his heel. “I tried.”

“I know,” Sam says. Outside, a bird chirps. “Dean?”

“What?” Dean asks, muffled by the arm thrown over his face.

“I didn’t mean it.”

Dean shifts his arm over and turns his head to look at Sam. “I know, kiddo.”

He sighs, and he sounds so tired.


	2. Chapter 2

A light clicks on, dragging him roughly from his dreams, and Sam hisses and yanks the covers up over his head. They’re pulled right back off, exposing his legs to the drafty room. He makes an undignified whine.

“Get up,” Dean says, slapping him lightly on the calf.

“What?” Sam’s brain is still all the way offline. He knuckles at his eyes, cracking his jaw on a yawn. He’s already reaching over the side of his bed, grabbing for a pair of pants when he stops. “Dude, Dad’s not even here. We don’t have training today.”

“Not training. C’mon, get your lazy ass out of bed. I want to be on the road before eight.”

Sam sits up, blinking hard. “What?”

Dean chucks his schoolbag at him so hard it hits him in the chest. He makes a quiet _oof_ around it—there are still books in there. “Do you trust me?”

Sam nods immediately. It isn’t even a question.

“Then less talking, more packing.”

“What do I pack?” Sam asks, dazed. Dad left yesterday on a hunt, said he planned to meet up with Uncle Bobby in Great Lakes. They don’t even have a car.

“Anything you need.” Dean considers. “Anything you’ll miss.”

Sam notices Dean’s own black, worn backpack stuffed full and leaning by the door. He nods, mouth dry, and hauls ass out of bed.

He dumps his school supplies on the mattress and starts shoving clothes in his bag—mostly clean, for practicality’s sake, but some dirty old favorites too. The shirt he’d won from a Fun Run at the school back in Rock Haven. His knife. His toothbrush. The canister of salt from the kitchen. The dog-eared copy of _The Fellowship of the Ring_ he’s been working his way through for the past week.

He stows his gun in the seat of his pants because whatever else is true, he’s still a Winchester. There are still hungry things in the world that want to kill them.

It all feels unreal. He feels like he’ll wake up to a blaring alarm and Dad telling them to run laps in the yard any minute. The only reason he doesn’t pinch himself is the scabbed-over cuts on his arm still smart and pull and tug when he moves, and that’s pain enough to assure him his life is real. Excitement bubbles up in him as he finishes up—excitement twined with a kind of double-edged fear.

It doesn’t take long to pack. They don’t own many things between the three of them, and the things they do own are born out of necessity and not sentimentality, for the most part. Sam doesn’t realize he’s stopped moving until Dean pokes his head into the room and sees Sam staring at it. Ancient rust-orange curtains flutter beneath the heater. The bed is still rumpled from his body. If he touched it, he bets it would be warm.

“You good?” Dean asks.

“Yeah,” Sam says, a little dazed. “Yeah,” he says, stronger. “I’m good.” He hefts his bag onto his shoulder.

He takes a last look over the room, running through a mental checklist and scanning the space to see if he’s forgotten anything important. It’s easy. They’ve done this a hundred times.

He leaves, and he doesn’t look back because this house—like all the motels and all the others—was never really his home anyway.

They cross the threshold onto the porch together, and Sam breathes in the cold, clean scent of winter air. Dean is quiet, and Sam doesn’t mind.

He looks down at Sam. “Are you sure about this? Absolutely sure?”

Sam nods solemnly.

“Are you?”

Dean sticks his stubborn chin out. “Gotta take care of my pain in the ass little brother, don’t I? C’mon, there’s a bus leaving at ten.”

* * *

The bus station isn’t anything like he expected it to be. For one thing, Sam expected it would be outdoors. Instead, it’s a cavernous warehouse stuffed full of benches and people bustling from one end to the other. The lights are bright and burning overhead, and every so often, a female voice announces an arrival or departure over the intercom.

Sam suddenly feels grubby and out of place.

He sticks behind Dean while he pays for two tickets, keeping his head down and half-expecting to be arrested for being a runaway truant—but the woman behind the glass is either unbothered or just doesn’t care. She sells them tickets to Jefferson City, and Dean pockets them with a wink and a nod.

They shuffle over to a bench on the far side of the bus depot—in the back, where they can see all the exits. Sam shucks his backpack and keeps it safe between his ankles.

“Can we afford this?” he asks.

Dean shrugs. “Dad left us some money, and I have a little saved. We can’t afford to take Greyhounds the whole way, but at least we can put some distance between us and Dad.”

“You think he’ll come after us.”

Dean gives him a look like he thinks Sam’s gone stupid. “Of course he will, Sam.”

Sam can imagine what Dad would do to the both of them if he did catch up—what he’d do to Dean. He only wishes he couldn’t. He tamps down a shiver that wants to run through him. “Then we won’t let him catch us.”

Dean gives him a faint ghost of a smile and ruffles his hair, and a small sun lights up in Sam’s chest. “Damn straight.”

* * *

The ride to Jefferson City is long and uncomfortable. It’s not that Sam isn’t used to long car rides. He practically grew up in the back of Dad’s car. He’s not used to having so many eyes on him, not used to the lack of privacy it affords. The panic under his skin is mounting as everything finally sinks in—a lack of motion will do that, he thinks. There’s nothing but the nearly imperceptible hum of the bus’s engine below, recycled air conditioned air, and endless time to think. He fidgets in his chair, thinking of making another trip to the bathroom just for something to do with his legs.

Dean, on the other hand, looks right at home spread out in the plush seat, head tipped down toward his chest. The amulet Sam gave him hangs between the lapels of his jacket, a horned little idol in bronze. A rush of feelings crash together in his chest, looking at Dean. Envy and fear and huge, overwhelming love. It stops up his throat with something thick and wet.

Dean cracks open an eye and glances at him sidelong. “Calm down. You’re giving me a headache.”

“Sorry.” Sam tries to settle, snugging his back into the plush, cushioned seat. He wiggles again, trying to get comfortable.

Dean sighs. Before Sam can open his mouth to apologize again, Dean’s hand is cupped around the back of his neck, a warm solid weight that soothes his every nerve. All the tension bleeds out of his body, and he sighs as Dean draws his head down to rest on his shoulder.

Sam goes without a fight, breathing in the familiar scent of Dean’s leather jacket, of sweat and smoke and nights in their car. He’s not tired enough to sleep, but just having his cheek pillowed against that leather cushion, everything feels just a little less dire.

* * *

It’s light out when they get off the bus, but only just barely. The sun has sunken down beneath the flat horizon, leaving everything painted in cold twilight hues. They’re dropped off in front of a strip mall, piling off the bus after the rest of the stiff, grumpy throng, and Sam’s belly gurgles loudly.

“Hungry?” Dean asks. He doesn’t wait for a response. “God, I could eat a friggin’ horse.”

“People eat horses, you know. Pioneers ate horses.”

“Gross.”

They make their way toward the row of red-roofed shops in the distance, only to find a nail salon and a sketchy-looking beauty supply store—not a restaurant or convenience store in sight.

“Want to get your nails done, Samantha?” Dean wiggles his fingers at Sam, who swats them away.

“Shut up.”

They cross the street into another parking lot and find a lone McDonald’s nestled among shop after shop with black, blanked-out windows. It’s a weird ghost town.

“Creepy,” Sam says.

“You scared?” Dean asks, and it’s not just ribbing—there’s an actual question in there.

Sam shakes his head. Dean ushers him into the restaurant with a hand on the back of his neck like Sam’s still a little kid. He thinks about arguing on principle, but the truth is he doesn’t really mind. He’s tired and hungry, and he doesn’t want to fight.

They order a mountain of food off the dollar menu and sit in the parking lot. Sam wolfs down two cheeseburgers and kicks his heels against the curb. “Where are we going?”

“West,” Dean says. “How’d you like to see California?”

Sam thinks about it, trying the idea on. He doesn’t hate it. “Can we go to the beach every day?”

“Hell, we can live on the beach if you want.”

“In-N-Out burgers.”

“Beach babes.”

“The California Science Center.”

Dean groans. “You fucking nerd.”

“At least I know how to read.”

“Bitch,” Dean says affectionately.

“Jerk,” Sam mumbles leaning against Dean, his belly full and his nose just starting to go numb from the cold.

* * *

It’s summer by the time they touch the border of California. Sam’s hair has grown shaggy, hanging down in his face and curling around his ears. They made it through a sodden winter and a mild spring hitching across the country, stopping anywhere that suited them or when they ran out of cash—whichever came first. Sam’s skin is tanned from afternoons spent in the back of a pickup truck cruising down the highway, and Dean is all-over freckles. He's so beautiful it takes Sam's breath away.

Sam is fifteen and growing fast, nearly as tall as Dean now. Dean takes one look at him one morning, highwater jeans showing off the thin, brown knobs of his ankles and frowns.

“Growing like a weed,” he says. “We gotta get you some new clothes.”

Sam shrugs. “These still fit.”

Dean shakes his head but doesn’t argue. They’ll pass a Goodwill eventually or they won’t.

They’re running low on cash again, story of their lives. The situation's not dire, but they’ll have to stop again before too long. Sam’s too young to hustle pool. He’s got too much of a baby face to get into bars, even with a fake ID, but that’ll change soon enough. For now he uses it to his advantage, with a pout that's perfect for arousing the sympathies of suburban, middle-class mothers the nation over.

But today, they're not thinking of any of that. Today, they walk past dusty mom-and-pop shops shuttered against the midday sun. They buy a bottle of Mexican Coke from a taco truck and split it between the two of them, passing it back and forth while they walk down the sidewalk littered with glittering glass. It’s a hot summer day, and Sam swears he can smell the ocean, even this far inland. He's sweating in his clothes, the back of his t-shirt stuck to his skin, and he takes a long swallow of their drink, letting its syrupy sweetness coat his throat.

He wipes his mouth and passes it back to Dean.

“Do you ever miss it?” he asks. He doesn’t have to say what _it_ is.

Dean doesn’t answer right away. He drains the last of the Coke, smacks his lips, then tilts the bottle one last time to catch all the dregs for good measure.

Sam watches his throat work. He feels warmth and pride and all the love in the world. He scratches idly at a fading, white scar on the back of his arm, pale against his newly brown skin.

“Sometimes,” Dean says at last.

It means nothing, and it means everything. Sam gets it. He thinks they’re the only two people who ever will.

**Author's Note:**

> [Twitter](http://twitter.com/lovetincture)


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